


miles to go before i sleep

by sm0kersmoker



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, linhardt's perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 18:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21222296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sm0kersmoker/pseuds/sm0kersmoker
Summary: Caspar is a curious friend.





	miles to go before i sleep

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi ! i did it! i've had this one drafted for a really long time and i wasn't going to post it until I finished it, but unfortunately uni is kind of draining and i haven't had a lot of time to work on my second chapter. So I decided to post it early rather than possibly not posting it at all.
> 
> (sorry if it's not up to par OTL)
> 
> this work has not been beta'd! it will probably never be beta'd because i don't have a beta reader! wow! so i'm sorry for any mistakes that make it to the publish.

Thinking is easy.

He take steps to think, like building blocks: one thought a strip of path to the next, no dawdling, no tours. Of course, on the off chance that the thinking leads to dreaming well, then - dream he _must_. There’s no stopping a dream; no obstacle should stand in the way of the demonic beast that is drowsiness.

Once that’s over, think again. Of things that need to be thought of- like the traces and curves of Cethleann’s crest, a Hero Relic’s use in a peaceful world, if abolishing such an inequitable heritage could shatter Fódlan’s alliance between the three kingdoms or bring together a harmony he might not enjoy living in. Crests are, after all, fundamental tools of the present - more so, a thoroughly enrapturing study. Does that make war a better option?

Anyways, thinking is easy; he likes to think. There is nothing to stop him from thinking: not time, nor place, nor circumstance.

So think he will.

* * *

When they are six, Caspar is a curious friend. He has eyes that sing like diamonds - glittering in cyan hues for all they’re worth - and a voice that thunders and strains and boils like a thousand legions under the sun. He has chubby arms for a six-year-old - that, or Linhardt’s physique is abnormally slim - and his feet ground him as solidly as Linhardt’s dreams take hold of his heart, like they are two forces of nature polarized in their elements but magnetized to swing and clash together in the dust.

He supposes, suddenly, (when he is six) that Caspar may not be a strange friend at all; this is considering the fact that Linhardt has no friends, has had no need of friends, and will never request for a friend should the opportunity pass him by. That said, Caspar is a friend still: whether by purely basic definition or their acknowledgement of each other through a dropped book and a thrown sword, and an older brother running fingers through wisps of blue hair before shoving an angry face into a courtyard blossoming with Angelica and threads of silver and gold. There is something to be said about the familiar similarities of their differences and, when Caspar looks at him like he is the tallest boy in the world, Linhardt takes his gaze in stride and tries to think the same, but the opposite.

He thinks only of: _Caspar Von Bergliez_, because he is six and anymore thinking than that causes dreams, and then sleep.

* * *

They hit their first roadblock soon enough.

Caspar’s sword likes a hard edge: the base of a tree, a wooden dummy, a servant’s makeshift shield out of pillows and chairs. When the wooden edge clacks with the sound of fake pain Linhardt doesn’t budge from his seat, doesn’t move. Sometimes it’s because he’s fallen asleep to the rhythm of Caspar’s swings; other times, too distracted in practicing his own art, his eyes are lost in the glow of his hands - white light radiating an intensity too strong for his age to comprehend.

This time, it is the sound of Caspar’s voice that lulls a lullaby: not that it was any softer or sweeter than the usual abrasive scream but the rhythmic _take that!_s grow fainter as the day wears by and exhaustion drags each pitch lower, and quieter, and more fatigued. Tap water dripping to a stop. Rain to drizzle sort of thing, the kind Linhardt could sleep with on a cool winter’s day.

So yes, trouble runs the line between their practicing and Caspar’s anger is a steady beat to Linhardt’s ears - melodious songs of a strained voice and wrung fists, and _Linhardt, listen to me! _that quiets the cricket chirp and cicada screech of insect quarrel. Linhardt bows his head to nap again because Caspar’s voice is as downy as pillow fluff, and if he tried to wake the voice might just disappear - his broken metronome ticking to a stop - and that means _no more napping_. The logic, to him, is very simple.

When he wakes again Caspar is stone cold staring - _unusual_, thinks Linhardt, _not the type for cold stares_ \- sitting at the edge of his nap-bench with his hands on his knees.

“Why do you like sleeping so much?” He’s more curious than he is angry, but his furrowed brows betray the calm exterior he so painfully tries to keep in check.

“What’s life without naps, Caspar?” Linhardt mumbles dazedly back. He runs his finger along a sweaty forearm, watches it bristle, flinch in surprise before Linhardt’s fingers clasp his wrist. There’s no intention behind it but Caspar finds meaning in many things at this age, interlaces their fingers with a grin and grips him tightly.

“I don’t get you at all.” He laughs and, squeezing his eyes shut, tries to sleep with him.

* * *

He attempts Reason for the first time in the dim of the Black Eagles classroom, lets it curl between his fingers soft and steady in his grip. Professor says he has a knack for it, the art, and does not need to be a patient teacher - each lesson expands his inventory quicker than the spread of mage flame, faster than breeze spurred by his own hands.

Spells are an easy topic. The handwork, the signs, magic aura practiced in steps so simple it’s almost logical to follow. Byleth watches him, little showing on his face before soft encouragement leaves his lips and Linhardt’s wind stirs a little higher. When he goes back to the dorm, Caspar is waiting for him at the brink of his bed, gauntlets cast to the floor and bright eyes staring beams into the ceiling like he’s looking for stars among the cracks.

“Extra lessons with the Professor?”

“Not exactly a revision session,” Linhardt teases with quirk of a smile, “but yes. Experimenting with Reason.”

“You should show me!” Caspar beams, sitting up eagerly as Linhardt drops his tomes off at a wooden desk.

He has never practiced magic before, Caspar. There were a few times in the Hevring household where Linhardt recalls their attempts to study it on warm afternoons, sitting together reading tomes, - a rare sight to see Caspar _sitting_ \- flipping through pages as Faith Arts flared at his fingertips. Even now as Linhardt turns Caspar’s palm in his hand he feels less than little potential tingling between their skin, pressing about as lightly as he can while Caspar’s eyes take each stroke of tome through careful action. He is strangely attentive when it comes to Linhardt’s half-hearted teaching, fingers twitching for the symbols and hand-signs to follow.

Perhaps it is Linhardt’s giddiness for a perfect learning streak that caused his hands to spark subtly between Caspar’s palms; or maybe he was simply too impatient for Caspar to properly grasp the simple concept of conjuring red flame. Either way, soft fire glows in the palm of Caspar’s hand and lights his hair and skin the faintest shades of cerise, painting a glow down his shoulders and arms as he gazes at the thing and fidgets in Linhardt’s grip.

“Maybe I have talent after all.” Caspar jokes, fingers wiggling as the flame grows and simmers by Linhardt’s command.

“Who knows?” Linhardt drawls back. A moment later it disappears and they break apart, and the ceiling is full of stars again waiting to be found.

“I think I’d rather fight hands on.” Caspar says with an air of finality.

“Yes,” Linhardt nods, not the least bit disappointed. “You’re suited for it.”

* * *

Below a tree hanging with ripe fruit, under a sky reddening towards sunset, Linhardt kills his first man.

A brigadier. He’s built for the clash of swords and axes - metal helm and studded boots a paper thin defense against Reason. Of course, neither of them leave unscathed - the axe cuts a clean line across the flesh of his hip, the pain spreading numbly like the crackle of fire roasting skin. When Linhardt looks up again the brigadier is a scorched corpse, a dead man blackened by mage flame, silver axe cutting grass in the whipping wind before two feet still standing. Caspar’s voice is a faint yell of fury in the distance, too caught up in the storm of battle to make sense of their victory, and Byleth is raging through the settling dust before Linhardt can come to terms with the red slit spreading from his abdomen; too dazed to feel the sharp edge of pain, the world a haze of vivid color and light and noise.

“You cannot be afraid.”

Byleth’s eyes are sharper than a sword’s edge and his words cut him with a similar precision. Not as if Linhardt didn’t already know it - the thought had lingered at the back of his mind for quite a while now - but then again, this was the present and not the past, and his present hands are soaked in blood and blackened flame and wind and soot and a heavy wet smell of death that feels so strangely humid.

“Professor,” Lindhardt’s tongue is lead in his throat, and the dust stings his eyes before resounding clashes of victory rally their troops as a flag rises in the sky.

Byleth’s face softens. He pulls his sword from a broken body, lays a hand on his shoulder and watches as the world tumbles and crashes and falls in blue eyes.

“Your heart beats, Linhardt.” He says finally, quietly, as if they can be heard over cries of breathless joy. “All that matters is you live.”

* * *

He numbers days by the dead, and blood runs thick in the runes and crests he marks. Even the library tastes of sour iron, between sheets of paper and weathered shelves, hanging over chandeliers, about as ever-present as light. Linhardt can’t often tell when dawn breaks - that is because the library seals itself away on the third floor of these monastery grounds, and lamplight is all that makes the narrow world a brighter yellow. At least fatigue can drive the smell away.

“Linhardt.” Caspar’s voice is a surprising occurrence here. It feeds into the shelves and the books and Linhardt’s eyes flicker lazily over a blue smudge before scrawling out his last note on the crest of Gloucester and sweeping it away.

“How unexpected,” he yawns. “Of all people to set foot into this chapel of knowledge, I’d have never expected _Caspar Von Bergliez_.”

“Oh, shut up.” Caspar’s voice rattles its annoyance in a stiff silence that permeates the air, settles between their bodies when his footsteps cross ground in near inaudible treading.

“I came here to look for you.”

“Whatever for?” Linhardt drawls, takes a step before Caspar’s hand curls around his wrist, sets it down and he sits drowsily back in his seat.

“Maybe I missed seeing my best friend.” Caspar shrugs. “What’re you doing?”

“Crest things.” He mumbles.

“I figured.” Linhardt thinks he sees Caspar roll his eyes - a typical trait adopted from none other than himself - and the haze of exhaustion finally settles into his bones. There is only so much he can take in with his eyes, and his sore hands, and the shoulders that slouch against a chest jolting in surprise.

“You’re always in here.” he thinks he hears Caspar whisper. “Like, it’s the only place you go. Why don’t we hang out anymore?”

The truth of it is simple, really. Linhardt counts his dreams on his hands, picks a thought to wander into a slumber with, and Caspar’s shoulder is the pillow on which he can begin to fall asleep on. The library’s dusty paper-iron smell dissolves into hallucination, books wobbling in his vision as he leans into the cup of Caspar’s curved hand.

“Because,” Linhardt murmurs into a calloused palm, “you smell like blood.”

* * *

War is a terrifying thing.

In a learned way, two years older and staggering under the looming presence of a dragon, he thinks he can recall thinking stupidly about consequences that didn’t have to matter because they never came to pass. Yet the dust that trembles at his shoes and the war cries and the thundering footsteps of battalions that rally under a red flag show, quite blatantly, that the world spins too fast for anyone to comprehend at all.

He cannot hear himself in the clash. Not his breathing, or his shaking, or his heartbeat - it claps with the sound of drums, people running past with weapons, barricades, mage fire burning like smoke signals in the distance and and the overpowering stench of dark magic that Linhardt is painfully familiar with. Even in the distance, like a gap in the ashes, Byleth is a reverent Professor - but Linhardt is a veteran pessimist and his heart aches with worry as the Creator Sword sings furiously among a field glinting with blood.

He’s not a complete coward, so he will not hide, but there are things he needs to protect and understand before he meets his end; he scrambles back to the monastery like a fish struggling against the current. 

He can predict their failure. He thinks, as he passes Lysithea by and her glaring, contemptuous stare, that she can too. There is no point to their understanding each other- he lets her call him a yellow-bellied rat, lets her watch him scurry into a tower that drips with dark arts, eating stone in thick pools, sharp runes that cut through doors like butter. The tall, thick oak is brittle to the touch- Linhardt draws up gust to pull at the arts around the ceiling, gagging at the smell. As expected, there is no one around to watch him.

Warping takes a greater toll on him than he thinks. His arrogance has limits, after all, and so does his physicality: it is in every flash that he stumbles on his heels, empties tomes into a safe haven, bites dust with burnt soles that catch with the aftereffects of magic overuse. It burns him in a sort of white-light ethereality that loses its presence in numbing feeling, losing vision, tearing skin and stuttering breaths.  Professor Hanneman would hate to see the _History of the House Fraldarius Sigils_ burn, so he takes that one too; _One Thousand Years of Enbarr_ for Petra, the _Tribal Traditions of Brigid and the Oghma Region_ for Ferdinand, _Three Thousand Folk Songs from Imperials years Five to a Thousand and Five_ for Dorothea- Bernadetta has a favourite novel, despite her denial, and Linhardt’s fingers grapple for _Cichol’s Dance: Stories of the Saints_ before it crumbles to ash under the pressure of the black magic that threatens to eat him alive.

Caspar has many a book to read. Linhardt never says, but there are things that could interest him in here- _The War of the Eagle and Lion: Faerghus’ strategy_, or perhaps _The Comprehensive Guide to Mastering the War Master_, or _Sreng Combat and the Intrinsic Nature of the Blade_. Perhaps even _Adrestian War Tactics across the Imperial Years_ could be an interesting skim, though it is bitterly apt as Linhardt shoves it into a shaking book bag and warps to a dusty attic now creaking with the weight of a thousand years of history.

He chokes on a vulnerary, blinking back into the half-barren library, coughing blood onto a table he napped against three months ago before Cyril shooed him away into the sunlight. He takes a seat, wobbly, disoriented daydreaming that plays a tune scratchy like a blue-haired voice and a blunt wooden sword, and a garden filled with the overwhelming scent of Angelica.

“Oh, Seiros.”

Linhardt smells blood. And steel, and silver gauntlets pulled from hands and hair sweaty from fighting. Someone picks him up like a doll, and Linhardt wishes he were still dreaming.

“You incorrigible buffoon,” Linhardt groans.

“I have no idea what that means.” Caspar pulls him to his feet, two arms stronger than steel and no gentler, desperate relief that ebbs into their bones as Linhardt digs his hands into his hair and feels the urge to cry. There’s no point in it, so he doesn’t, and holds onto Caspar’s bleeding back as light surges his palms and the muscles under his fingers relax with renewed strength.

“Bless the damn gods,” Caspar gasps into his skin, “I thought you were dead. And then I found Lysithea, and she told me you were a rat, and I should’ve guessed you were in here from the get-go, huh? Can you still warp?”

“What?” Linhardt blinks.

“Hanneman was handing out these,” Caspar shuffles his hands into his pockets, presses a seal into his palm and sags with relief as Linhardt’s eyes glow in renewal. “They restore magical properties in the event of overexertion, or something. I memorized like half what he said. I have no idea what that means either. Also- also,” Caspar flings a chair into the door with the force of a catapult and the whole thing gives way to splinters and broken wood. An exit is cleared. His face burns with red, almost comically, but Linhardt thinks they might die here and decides it’s not worth laughing over.

“-I like you.”

“Caspar-“ Linhardt splutters, mind reeling, hands grasping onto Caspar’s shredded clothing like it is the fabric of reality and the dark arts around them is a nonexistent threat.

“It’s looking really bad out there.” Caspar’s face contorts with pain that creases brilliant shades of soft red, “and Professor is missing, and Lady Rhea's gone, and _I like you_.”

“This is hardly the appropriate time-“

“I might die,” Caspar shouts over him, over the voices of burning tomes, shoves their bodies out of the library’s crooked exit and into a cacophony of battle cries. “So this is actually perfect timing!”

Linhardt thinks of what book to give him then. It is strangely surreal how Caspar drives an axe into a cavalry unit’s backside, stammers inaudible words with rage and embarrassment and shame, and then proceeds to push him into an alcove like it would do any good protecting him - like he would want to protect him at all.

“I have to fight.” Caspar says as an arrow drives into his shoulder pad. “I have to defend Garreg Mach. I have to be strong and prove myself.”

“You’re setting a high bar.” Linhardt coughs, then burns the bow knight to the ground.

“I- I need to go.” Caspar speaks with an air of finality. “Frontlines. Take out as many as I can before they reach the monastery.”

“You need a healer.” Linhardt struggles against his grip but Caspar’s training proves its worth as he pushes him down.

“Don’t.” He whispers.

* * *

It is in the year 1185 that ash begins to rains down from the sky.

That the thundering, resounding roar of a dragon’s rage descends from the heavens to the earth and collides with fire so bright it could out-burn the sun. That in those moments his thoughts wander to books and what Caspar might like to read, and what Caspar might want to learn, and what Caspar might be stupidly thinking as his hands leave Linhardt’s shoulders and back away into the blinding light of the Church’s downfall.

It is in the year 1185, on a Lone Moon that the world will be forced to remember, that Caspar doubles back in uncharacteristic hesitance. He tiptoes, calloused hands reaching for Linhardt's face, fingers smudging cheeks and foreheads knocked together in clumsy desperation. He kisses him, quiet as a page-turn, and a burning world roars with sickening, terrifying impatience. 

“_Run away_, _Linhardt_.” Casper pleads in a whisper. “_Don’t you hate the sight of blood_?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u very much for reading!!  
kudos and comments are always appreciated uvu
> 
> extra notes:  
i've always been kind of disappointed with the way caspar and linhardt's characters were developed. to be fair, they're not mcs, but i always thought their supports depended on one aspect of their character too much and it lead to disappointing or really weird support conversations. that's the main driving force of my fics tbh HAHAHA


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